Changeling
by Persephone999
Summary: A terrible mistake pushes a newborn baby into the lair. What makes Erik keep him? And how can a man who's never known love ever raise a child? Rated T for sensitive topics.
1. Chapter 1

Full Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera in any way, shape or form and receive no payment for creating this except the pleasure of writing it. No offense or copyright infringement is intended. I own the OCs, but nothing recognizable from canon belongs to me.

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><p>Special thanks to Lady Catkin for all of her support.<p>

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><p><span>Changeling<span>

Chapter 1

Nice girls didn't have babies before they were married.

Heart bashing against her chest like a lunatic against a wall, the girl dragged herself to the side of the dark street, a hand pressed to her stomach as panic bombarded her. In the dim glow from the streetlights, she tipped her head back and drank in the sharp, cold night air. The twinges had started when she was in the baker's shop, but like an idiot she'd dismissed them as cramps - or women's troubles. Women's troubles! She could almost laugh given the slight but definite curve of her belly, the bump she'd tried so desperately to conceal.

Drowning in her terror, she took another deep breath and set her sights on the bridge close by. Three. Two. One. Her feet flew over the cobbles, stumbling down the street, down the steps, under the bridge to the docks. Her knees turned to water beneath her, dropping her in the dirt. By some miracle she managed to crawl towards a wall, whimpering as a ghostly hand squeezed her insides, tighter and tighter until she thought she might burst. Had she been in any other condition, she never would have set foot in the docks. If nothing else, the place was filthy; beer bottles laid smashed, peppering the dirt with tiny daggers; the water cackled as it danced, just covering the noises of the empty street above; and as for the smell! But it was quiet, secluded, safe, so it would do.

Finding the strength to sit up, she placed her palms on the dirt and dragged herself back until the cold wall touched her skin. If she felt the needles of glass sinking into her hands, she didn't cry out. Now what? Before she could find an answer, she felt yet another twinge of pain. Muffled sobs rippling in the air, she forced her knees apart and obeyed the urge to push, biting down hard on her wrist to stop herself from screaming. The pain! Was it meant to hurt so much? Women had been giving birth for centuries- it couldn't be this difficult, surely. Digging her bitten nails into the palms of her hands, she moved her hand, took a gasp of air and bit down on her lower lip until blood slipped over her tongue. Lost and horribly alone, she somehow managed a push, then another, then another final push, and with a hot, slippery rush, it was over, at least for a few minutes before something else pushed its way through- just a silvery blue lump, glistening grey in the darkness, thank God, not another baby.

Before she had a spare moment to breathe, a tiny voice made her bend forward. Between her feet, a tiny, squirming creature wriggled about, squealing its poor little lungs out. A thick, grisly red ribbon trailed between the two, a link of love tying child to mother, mother to child. To anyone else, the new-born might have looked little different to a doll in the darkness, but the fascinated girl drank in each feature, each movement. Was he _her_ baby? Cautiously lifting the small, squirming infant onto her lap, something pierced the girl's skin, an intense emotion too fantastic for words. Her pain, her fear, her worry- gone, eclipsed by love for this beautiful baby. _Her_ baby.

Comfortable that she wouldn't be seen, she fumbled with the strings of her corset. After all, it didn't take a great physician to know that she couldn't have whatever that slimy mass was dangling off her baby, she realised, snapping a length of ribbon off and tying it around the fleshy rope between them, pulling until it snapped. Once that was out of the way, she hesitated, fear pinning her to the spot as she stared at the little boy before lifting him to her breast. When her body finally began to behave like a mother's body, the baby latched on. At least one of them knew what to do. Once he refused to take any more milk, she wiped the thick red and yellow slime off his features, taking in the perfect cupid's bow, those chubby cheeks, the ten tiny fingers in tight little fists. A little boy. Her darling, precious little boy.

And already she'd let him down, she realised, remembering how she'd ended up in this mess. As much as she'd have liked to think it was the drink, her condition was caused by a few measly words:

'If you loved me, you would.'

How many other girls had fallen for that lie? she wondered. Funny. She'd always thought she was such a sensible girl- too sensible to fall from grace- but because the stars were out and her head was full of rum and because she wanted it to be true, she believed him. She realised the next day that he hadn't loved her- loved her for those few minutes of fumbling in the dark, maybe, but not real love. Nothing like she loved this baby.

Would he grow up to hate her? After all, this was her fault: no one had pinned her down, no one had held a knife to her throat, and she knew this could happen. Barely a minute after that rush of love, shame oozed into her veins.

How was she going to look after him? A little prince deserved a palace- she'd be lucky to scrape a few francs together for a hovel. Even worse, she knew that he'd never be respectable. At best, someone might let him shine their shoes for a living. At worst... well, that wouldn't happen. But she'd made that life for him; she'd doomed him to being looked down on through no fault of his own. You stupid, stupid girl, she wanted to shout. How hadn't she thought ahead? How many times had she heard the other girls giggling about how someone or other went off with a boy and came back with a bastard?

Bastard. The word was hot oil bubbling on her skin. What sort of person thought of that word when they saw a baby? How could anyone see a sweet little creature like her child and see anything other than a gift from God?

Well to Hell with prying eyes and to hell with herself, if needs be. Her baby would be safe, she decided, clutching him to her like the most important thing in the world as she lost the battle with exhaustion.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Murderer! Phantom! Get him!"

The words bit Erik like rabid dogs as he stumbled along through the darkness, not daring to pause or look back. Strange - he'd thought his days of being hunted were over. Only minutes before, he'd been in his home, in his opera house, ready to begin a new life with Christine.

Christine.

A pretty little wife to take out on Sundays. A single person who might not shrink away in disgust.

It wasn't much to ask.

She must have loved him a little. Perhaps not as much as he'd hoped, but she wasn't indifferent to him, didn't hate him- he'd known enough hate to know that. And she kissed him.

She'd kissed him. His angel had kissed him. Christine had kissed him. If he lived another millennia he'd keep that kiss, preserve it, opalise the memory like a glass fallen under a waterfall - washed smooth and purified. Every miniscule detail was a jewel; her saffron curls, her dove-white skin, her china-blue eyes, her lovely lips daring to touch his withered forehead - one charitable act for a miserable monster. The white dress she wore, light as the air as she ran to her sweetheart, far from the Angel of Music.

How near he'd come to touching his dreams. How close he'd been to having the pretty wife. And yet here he was again. Defeated. Rejected. Running for his life. It was probably just as well he was so skeletal - he ran quicker that way. He'd tried and failed to eat more while Christine was around but he'd always been bony, even as a boy. Music was the only sustenance he needed. Instruments had made him faithful friends. Too petrified to do anything but run, he imagined what the mob was doing to his instruments and shuddered, only stopping when he saw a bare leg in his path, virgin white in the moonlight.

She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Corset unlaced, one white breast exposed for the world to see, her skirts all over the place. Dead or sleeping, who cared. What caught his interest, however, was the lump in her arms. Small. Beginning to cry again. A bit pathetic, really.

Till the day he died, he would never understand why he did what he did - why he lifted the infant from her arms and hid in a cranny to the side of the canal, an empty hole made accidentally by some unknown incident. There are theories. Some suggested that the wretched being was capable of pity. Others implied that he understood being alone well enough to have compassion for the whimpering child. A handful even mentioned fate. Then again, the more cynical would assume that his intentions were less honourable - after all, risking a life to catch a murderer is shaky ground to run across.

Whatever the reason, he drew his cloak around the child, hiding them both as a snarling man stalked past, as a woman ran in the direction she assumed the Phantom had taken, and as the crowds rumbled past, continuing their cries:

"Phantom! Murderer! We'll find you, coward! You'll hang for this!"

How many names did they call him? Finally, a few lingering notes were left before the crowd dissolved, people wandering in all directions but the right one. Silly fools, mused Erik, it made him want to laugh.

It wasn't until he heard a grizzling noise that he remembered what he was holding. What had possessed him to pick up the wretched thing? Now what was he meant to do with it? Before he could answer that question, something tightened around his finger. Without a word, he looked down at the tiny fist clenched around his finger- the one he would have worn a wedding ring upon - and gazed at the little boy's face. Blue eyes. A small nose. Wisps of baby-blonde hair. It was quite a dear little thing, really. Delicate, innocent and totally dependent on whatever speck of goodness there might be in the Phantom of the Opera.

Now _that_ was a marvellous thought. A child would _need_ him far more than Christine had wanted, feared or pitied him. Knowing he wasn't normal hindered those, but a child views normality as whatever they grow up with. And even then, keeping the thing meant having someone who would never leave him- someone who never _could _leave him.

Christine was gone, he knew that - the pain in his shrivelled soul proved that. He was never going to have a pretty wife to take out on Sundays or play music to. But, by some miracle he'd never understand, he had a chance for a child. And a child opened a thousand doors. A child could be a student. A successor. A companion. A legacy. Someone to remember him in the years after death had the mercy to visit him, and to bring him some happiness until then.

Once he got back to the lair, the baby would be his. After all, no one would miss the child- as far as the "ghost" could see, the little tart mother was probably dead. And who knew he was alive? It was dark, after all, and he was getting old - no one would believe that he could outrun all those people. He had little need to contact anyone, really. Savings. Music. Water. Those were all either of them would need.

Winding his cloak around the infant, it occurred to Erik that he ought to name it. Ludwig, perhaps? Wolfgang? Appropriate for the man he hoped to raise, but not for the child he held. The child deserved something meaningful, something beautiful, something to fit his future. Apollo? Phoebus? He could have named the child within a moment had it been a girl. With a flash of genius, there it was - the perfect name. Lifting the baby, he bent his neck to take as good a look at the child's face as the darkness would allow.

"Christian," he whispered, watching with yellow eyes as the baby slept soundly, not even grizzling at the rancid breath against its cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Phantom's home was a disgrace.

Holding his new son with stiff, awkward arms, Erik took a few cautious steps, stopping where shards of looking glass covered the floor. Turning his face from the broken mirrors, he began to inspect the damage. His instruments appeared to be the mob's main victims; a snapped cello string lay useless on the floor; organ pipes pointed at odd angles like broken fingers; two halves of a violin clung together by a few splinters. An all-too-familiar moisture crept along the Opera Ghost's yellow cheek. And _he_ was the brute?

Before the Phantom could voice his disgust, a tear fell and shattered on Christian's cheek, waking the child. In a split second, the silence vanished beneath the infant's bawling. That tiny face that had been sleeping so soundly before now howled and whimpered and sobbed and wailed...

"Quiet!" Erik hissed, unheard over the noise. "Stop!" The screaming continued. How was it that a creature barely half the size of a cello could wail twice as loud? Lowering his voice, Erik threw a pleading look at the child in his arms. "Please stop crying, Christian."

Unfortunately(as any parent will tell you) a baby will happily quieten down simply because you ask him politely, and so the screaming symphony continued for what seemed like hours - long enough for the Opera Ghost's ears to ring and loud enough to make his skull rattle. Setting the baby down, he took a step back. Taking a deep breath, he tried to concentrate. A newborn couldn't be _that_ complex.

Any human being has a few basic needs; warmth, food and contact. Picking the infant up, Erik set himself down on the bench by the organ, his withered brow creasing like old, wet paper. It had never really bothered him, but a slight breeze tended to run through his home from time to time. Was that the trouble? Without a word, he unfastened his cloak and spread it over the wriggling baby, tucking the cloak around the baby's back. The cloak was velvet, heavy, more than adequate for protecting the little boy from the cold, but it did little to quiet Christian. His little arms wriggling about under the cloth, the baby continued to cry, grizzling to the point of half-exhausting himself. Gentle shushing and attempting to comfort him did nothing, and that a single possibility: hunger.

Of course! Now, what did a new-born baby eat? Erik glanced between the screaming child and a bowl of two-day old bread but, catching sight of the baby's bare gums, he realised this was little good. Chiding himself, the opera ghost dropped the bread. Water, perhaps? No, that offered no nourishment. It was a shame that Antoinette Giry had been turned away from the _Opera Populaire_, though her daughter had been allowed to stay. Perhaps she might have known, but in the mean time he was alone in the matter.

The best way to simplify a problem is to put it on paper. Having placed the tucked-up baby on the bed, at the centre to prevent him from falling off, the Opera Ghost drifted to his desk and lifted his quill. He tried not to look at the small stage or the two dolls looking down from the bridge, instead focusing on his own swirling script:

_Sources for study of children_

_Park? (May not find child of C's age. Use new mask.)_

_Rooftop? (Does not allow much detail. Somewhere closer to subjects.)_

_House? (Possible. Use new mask. However, would require finding a woman and child to follow- time consuming and undesirable)_

_Hospital? (Possible, but may contract disease from patients. Use new mask.)_

_Mlle G? (Possibly unreliable/unwilling given situation with Mme. G)_

_Orphanage? (Use mask.)_

His yellow eyes glowing, he crossed out the first three options; finding someone with a baby in those situations could take days if not weeks, and either way that was far longer than he wished to spend in the open where those shallow, awful things that called themselves human were hunting him. Marguerite Giry was also struck from the list. Why would the ballet rat ever want to help _him_? At best, he was the reason for her mother's dismissal. At worst, he was... well, he could imagine what she might have to say. Another line darted over her name, leaving only two options.

Would there be many children in a hospital? Perhaps, but there would likely be far more adults. Then of course there came the matter of finding whereabouts in the building the children were, which could take even more time, and furthermore, a hospital was a place of disease. Did he honestly want to risk typhus or some other horrid illness? How far away from the Opera Populaire was the hospital, more importantly? He knew that the orphanage was nearby; he was less sure about the hospital.

Of course, he did have the added security of his latest project, which would prevent him from frightening children in an orphanage. Not that anyone would believe an orphan should one wake up and see a skeletal man in a mask in the dormitory- what child didn't see monsters in the dark? After a little more deliberation, he decided on the orphanage as the best place to gather information- and test his latest creation.

His lips, if he'd had any lips, would have stretched into a smile as he walked over to a small, mahogany box with a young man's face carved into the top as decoration. Inside lay an artificial face, with lips, smooth cheeks, a nose and perfect porcelain skin, fitting from the base of the neck to the forehead, which he would cover with a wig. Hands trembling slightly as he lifted his masterpiece, he closed his eyes and lifted the mask onto his deformed face. It fit perfectly, as he'd known it would, and for a moment he felt a pang of regret for smashing the mirrors. Had he seen himself, he'd have known that he looked remarkably average now. Handsome, even. The Opera Ghost could be _handsome_! Adjusting his wig, Erik glanced over to check Christian, who by this point had exhausted himself with his bawling and was sleeping soundly again, then darted down the tunnel, painfully aware that the golden silence might not last long.

In decades to come, Florence Nightingale would denounce places like the orphanage in disgust. Even in the moonlight, Erik could see cockroaches scrabbling about over the windowsill, and an odd smell a little like sour milk hung in the quiet night air. An attempt had been made at hygiene- a scrubbing brush floated in a basin in the corner of the half-scoured wooden floor- but it was nowhere near enough. About a dozen cradles lined the wall, each contained a blanketed baby; scrawny, squealing things that didn't have Christian's puppy fat. Others were as red as if they had been scrubbed raw. Were children _meant _to look like that? Like sun-baked worms? Surely not. Christian did not look like that. Christian was a beautiful child. No matter. Quiet as the night, Erik moved forward to the closest crib and nudged the child inside to wake it. Nothing. He nudged the child again and it stirred. A sharp poke later the child was bawling.

Sweet Heaven above, the _noise_! In its cot the red-faced, shrivelled thing screamed in a way that Erik could have reached in and shook the thing had two nurses not bustled in. Ducking away from the moonlight, the ghost found a safe hiding place in the dark, cobwebbed corner.

"My goodness, he could wake the dead," muttered one, a woman of about thirty.  
>"Let's just hope he doesn't wake the others up." the second replied, grabbing something from the table. Within seconds, the crying stopped. Gently holding the baby to her and patting its back, she cooed. "There we go. He only wanted a bit of milk."<p>

Observing from his corner, Erik thought back to the mother's white breast and nodded to himself. Milk. He would have to find some, since he himself lacked the anatomy to feed Christian in the natural fashion. How long would it be before Christian could eat the same food as Erik? Would cow's milk be enough until then? Glancing at the bookshelf a few feet to his right, he strained his yellow eyes to see the titles; _Caring For Your Child From Birth To Two Years_, _Caring For Infants_, _Raising A Happy Child_, _A Family En_-

"Adéle?" There was a note of terror in the younger nurse's voice that made Erik look up. Between him and her was a stream of moonlight that brightened as the clouds began to disappear. A drop of yellow starlight slipped towards the Opera Ghost, outlining his black shoe.  
>"Yes?" The older woman asked, dropping the silenced child back into its cot.<p>

The younger girl's blue eyes flickered between the window and the corner, fear pinning her to the spot as she caught sight of a pair of glowing yellow eyes watching her from the corner. The veil of clouds drifted away from the moon, spilling moonlight into the room drop by drop. Staring, the young nurse's mouth opened as she caught sight of the black trousers, the spindly body, the bony neck, the strangely smooth, oddly handsome, expressionless face.

"What are you doing in here?" the girl squeaked, trembling like a rat dangling from a cat's paw. Silence seeped through the room, heavy with fear.

"Lisbeth, what are you gawping..." No sooner had the older woman caught sight of the Opera Ghost than the words perished in her throat. Her mouth wide with fright, her eyes skimmed the line of cradles before darting back to the masked man, then to Lisbeth, then to _him_. Adéle had not forgotten the tales of her childhood... Tales of men who came in the night... Men who feasted on flesh... Murderous, yellow-eyed men. The children in the cribs were only gutter brats. They would not be missed. Her and Lisbeth, on the other hand...

"Please, Monsieur," the woman whimpered. "Take whatever you want." Ripping her eyes from the man for a moment, she glanced at one of the wretched infants and stepped back from the cribs. She did not dare lift her eyes from the floor. "Take whatever you wish, but please, Monsieur..."

Monsieur Fantôme glared at the fat woman. Was every woman as pitiless as his mother? Was there only one good woman in all the world? One kind woman, one sweet woman who kissed him and left him and married someone else. It appeared to the him that he had saved Christian from a world worse than even the phantom had believed. Reaching for his lasso, he advanced forward and stretched a hand out to the closer of the two women- the scrawny, blue-eyed one. The chill that clung to him could be felt by the girl even through his glove as a hand curled around her neck. The voice, to Lisbeth's shock, came not from the man's mouth, but from behind her. The girl's heart thumped.  
>"Get out," the thrown voice ordered as the man loosened his grip around her throat. "And her," it added, shooting into Adéle's ear. Neither woman needed telling twice. They were gone within moments and did not go back inside all night, though the children cried. Eager to leave, the phantom snatched books from the shelf and vanished through the window.<p>

From the books, Erik learned of the millions of wants and needs of a new baby. Of course, these were special circumstances, leaving the phantom to do what he was so very good at: improvisation. A cello case served as Christian's crib. Each morning, the child was taken to the roof for a few hours to prevent rickets. A drop of whisky for teething. Soft lullabies composed for sleepless nights.

A child with a cello case for a cradle would surely love music, his father hoped. Would he compose? Sing? When the baby's hair grew, would it be the pale saffron colour of Christine's? Oh, the phantom did hope so. Surprising, how a man who had never known a parent's love could be so devoted to his stolen son. Each milestone brought joy the opera ghost never believed to be possible, and he could barely contain his delight when he noticed the first wisps of saffron curling on little Christian's forehead.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

And what of that girl at the docks? What happened to her? Well, the sun pried her eyes open only a few hours later, and her gaze instinctively fell to the child in her arms.

Her baby.

Where was he? Her heart span in her chest. He was in her arms when she fell asleep. Had she dropped him? But that would have woken her up. Had some wild animal…

The girl was on all fours scrabbling in the dirt, her corset still unlaced. Where had he gone? Had he been taken by someone? She'd only been asleep for a little bit. Where was he? Why wasn't he in her arms? What had happened? Her baby, her baby, her baby.

"Please God," she sobbed, her hands darting in any and every direction. "Please give him back. I'll look after him, I promise, I'll do anything you tell me, just please give me my baby back. Where have you taken him?"

Her hands ached from the shards of glass sticking in her palms. Had she dreamed him? Had she really died last night? Was this Hell? Was this because of her sin? Her sobs scraped at her throat until she thought she would die from it.

"Please, not my baby, not- not my baby!"

She stayed down there in the dirt for three days, searching endlessly. Had her little boy fallen into the river? Had he been taken somehow? What if he was hurt? And then came the dreadful thought that her baby might be dead.

"No, God, please…"

Her baby was probably dead.

"Oh God…"

Her baby was almost certainly dead.

There's a sort of grief where you cease to even feel human. You can barely stop yourself from falling on your hands and knees, you stop caring about anything and you sob so hard that your words drown to the howls and whimpers of a dying animal, and that is the kind of grief that overcame the childless mother. Her baby, gone. Her baby, dead. However she sobbed or screamed or pleaded, her poor baby son was gone and no one ever knew he was born but her.

She wasn't sure how long it took her to get up and walk, and she didn't care. In fact she might have stayed there forever if she hadn't wanted to escape from that awful place and the thoughts of what might have happened to her baby. In the awful beauty of the sunrise she could imagine something better for him. She wanted to believe that God, knowing the life her little boy would have, had sent an angel to take her baby to Heaven. Her baby would be a heavenly prince and an angel would nurse him. Perhaps it was a childish thought, but she was a child and she was heartbroken, and in moments of such misery the probably is not nearly so important as the comforting. Why else would Christine Daae still believe in the Angel of Music at twenty years old?

The others were still in their beds when she reached the dormitories, giving her enough time to wash her clothing and hide what had happened. They might have thrown her out if they'd known. The day went by in a grey haze and so did practice; clarity came when she found herself in the chapel.

She'd never prayed much apart from when she had to or she really wanted something. She didn't see the point: surely God had more pressing matters than looking after her. And what would he say now? Would he really want to listen to her? She was a sinner, and while he might have forgiven her she couldn't confess to a priest, she just couldn't. She shuddered at the thought of telling what she'd done.

She couldn't look at Christ, she her eyes darted everywhere; the rainbow-stained glass, the painted cherubs, the Virgin Mary's gentle eyes with all their love and compassion. Mary had lost her son too. Perhaps Mary might understand. Squeezing her eyes shut, the young woman took a deep, shuddering gasp of air and whispered, even speaking in her native tongue for fear that someone might hear her.

_Madre Maria, un'occhiata dopo il mio bambino, amen._

Mother Mary, look after my baby.


	5. Chapter 5

Right, I should probably state straight away that this chapter is upsetting. It has upsetting content and you should read at your own risk.

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

At this point in our story, there really seems little point to describing the child's developmental milestones: after all, Christian was no special case and there was little unusual about either his walking or his talking. Indeed, the only reason to describe either would be to offer the Phantom a moment of fatherly pride enjoyed by every father, and in circumstances like these it seems somewhat silly to dwell on the typical parts of Christian's infancy. Instead, please permit the narrator to include the phantom's first music lesson for his child, which came soon after the little boy was able to walk and talk. Naturally, once those rudiments were in place Papa Fantôme was eager to have his little son take up the most important skill of all.

He decided on the violin for the little boy. After all, Christian was not yet as tall as the cello, and his little legs still dangled several inches above the floor when Papa set him down on a stool to play piano. No, the violin had been Erik's first instrument, and now it must be Christian's.

He found the little boy sat in front of the music box banging his hands together in a poor mimicry of the monkey gently rustling cymbols.

"Christian, come here," Erik called, pointing to a spot by the steps. This is when his last student would spring up from her seat and glide towards him, her nightgown drifting like a bridal train behind her. Her eyes would watch with awe, appreciative of his angelic talent. Of course his last student was not three years old. "Now, Christian. Christian! Come here! Put that thing _down_." Eventually he had to lift Christian and set the boy down where he wanted him. "I'm going to teach you something very special, _mon fils cher_. I'm going to teach you how to – no, stay where you are. Today I will teach you – Come back here, Christian. Christian. _Christian._ Oh for pity's sake," the Phantom muttered, trudging after the runaway toddler. Eventually he dragged the boy back to the spot and set him down, keeping his hands on the boy's shoulders to keep him put. "You will learn about - Get your finger out of your nose. What I start to teach you today is greater than - No, don't put it in your mouth, just wipe it on something. Not on me!"

Yellow eyes stretched wide with horror he slapped frantically at his shirt. "How foul!" Hissing a breath, the phantom tugged the shirt off, the white fabric revealing skin like beeswax dripped over old bones. His ribs in the dusty candlelight were as defined as the bars of a birdcage, threatening to rip through the skin at any moment.

He picked up the violin and the little boy watched him with wide eyes.

"Hold it under your chin. Relax your wrist. Good. Now this bit is the pad, and this bit is called the frog. Pardon? No, Christian, it doesn't make the noise. Now put your thumb in between - Christian, stop croaking! You aren't a frog!" he scolded, curling the little boy's fingers onto the bow and holding them there. Then, lifting the bow in the little boy's hand, he held it up and pushed the boy's hand carefully so that the violin sang. "Now you try it."

Smiling at his new toy, Christian thrashed the bow across the violin strings as Erik clapped his hands over his ears. Dear God, that poor instrument! It screeched like a dying animal! The poor thing was being murdered! Slaughtered! The stupid child was doing it all wrong!

His hands clenched, his jaw clenched, his chest heaved and as the next bad note wailed the phantom's hand came down swiftly and sharply across the child's cheek.

The violin clattered to the floor.

"Pick it up," the Phantom ordered the bawling boy. "Pick. It. Up."

Another bad note, another hit, another sob, another shout until finally – after hours - _finally_, a clear, trembling note shuffled through the air, curving around the little child like a mother's embrace.

A heavy hand is by no means the best teacher, but it is the fastest.

"Better. There's hope for you yet," he said, reaching out to stroke Christian's curls. He wasn't very good, but he wasn't very old, either. He would get better at it. "Christian? Christian, come here," he demanded, but the little boy shrank from him with all the fear he would have looked at a bedtime monster with. Then it was the Phantom's turn to weep.

"Don't sob. Christian, there's no need to…" With every step he took towards the child the little boy took three steps back until he met the ledge. Even without the little boy's tears, Erik already knew what might happen. Another pupil wanted to run away from him and it was all his own fault. "Christian, please don't cry. You'll get better as long as you practice." Sighing, he knelt down and held his hand out to the child. He hadn't hit him so very hard, had he? And he had learned, in fairness. Wasn't this the same way Ludwig Van Beethoven's father had taught? The same way every parent everywhere did? "Come here, my little boy. I won't hurt you, I promise." Reluctantly, the little boy glanced at the deep, black water and thought better of diving into it. Silently, slowly, cautiously, the child clambered into the phantom's lap and burrowed deep into the Phantom's shoulder, hiding his face with the childish logic that anything you can't see can't hurt you. "Shh, shh," Erik said softly, cradling the little boy. Surely the child would still love him after three years. After all, he had loved his mother for much longer after much worse. Was what he had done so terrible? No, he supposed not. Children were killed every day by their parents, and by judges for that matter, and for much less. No, the Phantom felt he had been very fair to his pupil, and as kind as he could be if he wanted the little boy to improve. Christine had sometimes cried with exhaustion at their practices, but didn't she also bewitch the whole of Paris?

"It is all right, Christian. I am sorry. The music might not come straight away like it does with others, but it will get better. You must respect it, though. Music will always love you once you can entice it, do you understand? Music is the only thing that stays."

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><p>I should probably explain why I chose to include this chapter. I had a few reasons for this incident.<p>

Firstly, I wanted to highlight that the Phantom is not stable and would not be a normal parent. This man has murdered people. He has harmed people. He has killed people who did nothing to him. He lies, cheats, humiliated and harms to get his way, and when he doesn't get his way he lashes out. Even if his treatment of Christine in the film cannot be seen as physically abusive, he still shoves her out of the way and shouts at her when she gets on the wrong side of him. He makes the people he loves unhappy. For example:

"... tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead."

That's what Christine has to say about their relationship in the book. Admittedly, I might sound like I'm being too harsh: in fairness, Erik is this way because he was made that way. But even if it isn't his fault that he became the Phantom, it doesn't change the fact that he is exactly that.

Secondly, I wanted to highlight that raising a child is not easy, cute or simple. I didn't want this story to be fluff as much as I wanted a deconstruction. I wanted to show that while a child might make Erik happier, it might not make the child happy.

Thirdly, I wanted to be fair to the time period this story is set in, and the truth is that capital punishment was the usual punishment for children at the time. It's horrible, but it's how things were. Having said that, if this does upset people I will bump up the rating to M, and please let me make it clear that I do not, in any circumstances, consider it acceptable to hit a child. However, I did think it made sense that Erik would do so, which is why it's in the story.

Katie.


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